Serine no longer slept. She no longer ate. She no longer felt her body as a human body. She felt she had become something else: a vessel for every shadow in Aurthora, a heart beating with thousands of different pulses, a living library for every unspoken secret.
She walked through the city streets, and people looked at her with fear and respect. Her eyes were no longer blue as they once were — they had become completely black, as if darkness had taken up residence in them. But deep within those eyes, there was a small flicker of blue light, like a distant star in a moonless night.
"You frighten people," said Craiven. He walked beside her, but kept a slight distance. Even he, the sarcastic one who feared nothing, felt awe in her presence.
"I know," said Serine. Her voice was different. Not the voice of a twenty-year-old girl. It was deep, tired, as if coming from a bygone century. "But I can no longer pretend to be normal."
"You are not normal. You are more than normal. You are supernatural."
"No. I am just... full. Full of everything. Full of pain. Full of secrets. Full of shadows. So full that I am afraid I might burst."
Craiven stopped. He looked at her for a long time. Then he said: "Then you must empty yourself."
"How?"
"By returning to Ilthar. He is the only one who knows how to handle this. He got rid of his shadow. Perhaps he knows how to help others get rid of theirs."
"But he also got rid of his humanity."
"True. But that is the price. Perhaps you will find a lesser price."
Serine looked at the sky. The cracks were still there, steady as scars. She knew the path to the tower would be different this time. She no longer needed Craiven to guide her. She knew where the tower stood. She could feel it inside her.
"I will go alone," she said.
"Serine..."
"Alone, Craiven. This is something I must do without you."
Craiven looked at his shadow. The shadow moved quietly, as if knowing something he did not.
"Alright," he said finally. "But come back. Come back to us."
She did not answer. She walked toward the outskirts of the city, toward the hills, toward the tower that loomed on the horizon like a broken finger.
The tower was different this time. It was not as dark as before. It glowed with a cold blue light, like a lighthouse in a sea of darkness. When Serine reached the entrance, she did not find the door she had found the first time. There was a solid wall, but the wall was transparent. Through it, she could see Ilthar sitting on his stone chair, waiting for her.
"Enter," said a voice from within her. It was not Ilthar's voice. It was the voice of the tower itself.
Serine placed her hand on the wall. The wall parted like a curtain, and she entered.
Ilthar was as she had left him: sitting, motionless, without a shadow, almost without emotion. But his pale golden eyes glowed differently today. As if they were watching something they had never seen before.
"You have changed," he said.
"The Greater Shadow is inside me," said Serine. She needed no preamble. "All the shadows of Aurthora are inside me. I am now the Heart of Shadows."
"I know."
"And you learned to get rid of your shadow. How did you do it?"
Ilthar looked at her for a long time. Then he said: "I did not get rid of it. I killed it."
A long silence. The words weighed like lead in the air.
"You killed it?" Serine whispered.
"Yes. The shadow is not just a part of you. The shadow is you. The part you do not want to see. When I got rid of my shadow, I did not get rid of a lie. I got rid of a part of my soul. I killed that part."
"And do you regret it?"
Ilthar looked into the void. His eyes were empty, but there was something in them resembling sadness. Or perhaps that was an illusion.
"Every day," he said. "But I cannot bring it back. Death is irreversible. Even the death of a shadow. Killing your shadow is not a solution. Killing your shadow is partial suicide. You may feel peace. But the peace you feel is the peace of the dead."
Serine sat on the ground facing Ilthar. She felt the weight of the shadows inside her, like a mountain on her chest.
"So how do I help people? How do I make them face their shadows without dying?"
"You cannot. Some of them will die. Some will collapse. Some will live as ghosts. That is the price of truth."
"I do not accept this."
"Truth does not need your acceptance. Truth is truth."
Serine stood up suddenly. She felt anger rising within her. Anger she had never felt before.
"You always say that! Truth is truth! Truth does not care! Truth is cruel! But I have discovered something, Ilthar."
"What?"
"Truth is not a thing. Truth is what we make it. Truth changes when we look at it. When I embrace a shadow, it changes. It becomes lighter. It becomes less painful. Truth is not rigid. Truth is alive. It breathes. It suffers. It rejoices. Just like us."
Ilthar looked at her. For the first time, she saw something in his eyes other than coldness. She saw... astonishment.
"You truly believe this?"
"I live it. Every day. Every shadow I embrace becomes less dark. Not because I change the truth. But because I change my relationship with it. Truth is not something you find. Truth is something you make. You make it through your relationship with it. Through how you look at it. Through how you embrace it."
Ilthar fell silent for a long time. He was thinking. Or perhaps remembering something he had forgotten.
"When I was young," he said finally, "I had a sister. She loved to draw. She drew shadows. Not ordinary shadows, but the shadows you see when you close your eyes. She used to say that true shadows are not on the ground, but in closed eyes."
"What happened to her?"
"She died. Because she saw a truth no one else could see. The truth that the Grand Guardian was lying. His guards killed her."
Serine fell silent. This was the first time Ilthar had spoken of his past. This was the truth that had made him kill his shadow.
"Is that why you got rid of your shadow?" she asked. "Because you wanted not to suffer?"
"Because I wanted not to feel anything. The pain was killing me. Every day. Every night. Every time I remembered her face."
"But now you feel nothing. Neither pain nor joy. Is that better?"
Ilthar looked at her. His eyes trembled. For the first time, Serine saw Ilthar tremble.
"No," he whispered. "This is not better. This is worse. But I do not know how to return."
Serine extended her hand toward Ilthar. She did not touch him. But she opened her heart to him. She showed him all the shadows she carried. She showed him the pains of others. She showed him that pain could be endured if it was shared.
"You can return," she said. "Not by bringing your shadow back to life. But by creating a new shadow. A shadow of your choosing. A shadow of the dreams you never fulfilled. A shadow of the people you loved. A shadow of the life you wanted. You cannot bring back the dead. But you can build new shadows for them. Shadows of memory. Shadows of love. Shadows that keep them alive within you, without killing you."
"Is that possible?"
"I do not know. But we can try together."
Suddenly, the tower shook. The walls shook. The ground shook. The cracks glowed violently, as if having a heart attack.
"What is happening?" Serine cried.
"The Grand Guardian," said Ilthar, standing up. His face was hard again, as if he had retreated into his shell. "He did not flee. He was planning. Gathering his power. And now... he has returned."
They exited the tower. The sky was red. Not red like twilight, but red like blood. And a massive shape floated above the city. Not the Greater Shadow. It was something else. Something uglier. Something made of broken masks, of dead illusions, of fear that never dies.
It was the Grand Guardian. But he was no longer a man. He had merged himself with every illusion he had ever created. He had become the illusion itself.
"Serine!" Craiven shouted from below. He was running toward the tower, his face pale. "He has returned! And he is stronger than before!"
Serine descended from the tower quickly. Her heart pounded violently. The shadows inside her moved like panicked bees.
"What does he want?" she asked.
"He wants to destroy everything. Everyone who saw the truth. Everyone who broke a mask. He wants to restore the illusions. But by force this time. Not by deception."
Serine looked at the sky. The Grand Guardian was laughing. His laugh was empty, like the laugh she had seen at the beginning. But it was stronger. It shook the ground.
"O people!" cried the Guardian, his voice like thunder. "You have been deceived by your so-called witch! By her false truth! Now I will return your peace to you! I will return your illusions to you! I will return your happiness to you!"
Masks began to fall from the sky. Thousands of masks. Not real masks, but magical masks, searching for faces to cling to. They stuck to people's faces against their will, returning them to their slumber, erasing their vision, planting illusions anew.
"No!" Serine screamed. And she ran toward the people.
She began pulling the masks from their faces. But for every mask she removed, two appeared in its place. The Grand Guardian had become stronger than she had expected.
"You cannot stop me!" cried the Guardian. "I am no longer a man. I am an idea. And an idea does not die!"
Serine looked at Ilthar. He stood motionless, watching. He could help, but he hesitated.
"Ilthar!" she screamed. "Help me!"
Ilthar looked at her. His eyes glowed. He was thinking. Remembering. Choosing.
Then, for the first time in centuries, Ilthar moved.
He did not walk. He did not run. He... flew. He rose into the air like an arrow, toward the Grand Guardian. His hands were outstretched, his eyes blazing with golden light.
"You!" cried the Guardian. "You traitor! You are the one who taught her!"
"I am the one who taught her truth," said Ilthar, his voice cold as ice. "And now I will show you the truth of your illusions."
Ilthar did not attack the Guardian. He embraced him. Yes, he embraced his enemy. His arms wrapped around the Guardian's massive body, and his eyes closed.
"What is he doing?" Craiven whispered.
"He is trying to show him the truth," said Serine, her eyes welling with tears. "Trying to show him that he was afraid. That he was alone. That he was a victim, just like us."
Suddenly, the Grand Guardian began to scream. A scream of pain. A scream of fear. A scream of confession.
"Yes!" he cried. "Yes, I was afraid! I was afraid of being alone! I was afraid that my existence had no meaning! I was afraid of being just an ordinary old man!"
Then the Guardian began to fade. The masks fell from the sky, lifeless. His body shrank. Grew smaller. Turned into nothing but an old man. An old man weeping.
Ilthar fell to the ground with the Guardian. His body trembled. His eyes were tearing.
For the first time in centuries, Ilthar was crying.
"I felt something," he whispered. "I felt pain. And I felt relief."
Serine embraced him. "That is what it feels like to return to life."
Sometimes, the only way to defeat an illusion is not to expose it. But to embrace it. To show the fearful that they are not alone in their fear. Only then does the illusion disappear. Not because it was exposed. But because it is no longer needed.
End of Chapter Eight